An autumn day like this

featured in the poetry forum January 9, 2024  :: 0 comments

The latest news starts as beautiful tales:
It was once a time of hope and a happy city.

Now there is smoke, fog, and grief stones.

People walk around confused, drink coffee with ghosts,
and make confession to them as Constantine* did
when he brought Doruntina to his mother.

Across the narrow streets, thoughts are narrow
and fall down: also those who make their eyes four.

There was once a time when we expected freedom from the news.
Now the news reveals shadows and tarnishes freedom.

Beyond the horizon in the steep mountains, snow,
and an endless winter frost.

One autumn day, like this one,
with excess freedom of imagination, with
beautiful women playing in the beautiful autumn leaves.
Meanwhile, across the screens,
a gang of politicians blur their intentions.

One autumn day, like this autumn day,
unscrupulous people walk empty streets.
They abort freedom and appear every evening on our big screens.

Before eyes that see nothing in the fog,
they demonstrate how the kingdom of madness is formed.

At the end of one autumn day,
I stopped the clock. And through the window
I saw many silhouettes, upset people in an upended city
of troubled women
and the troubled children of a handful of very happy politicians.

(Translated from the Albanian by Edita Kuçi Ukaj)

*Constantin and Doruntine, or Constantin’s Besa, is an Albanian ballad and legend.

editors note:

You can fool some of the people some of the time… (We welcome Ndue to our crazy congress of Contributing Poets with this submission. Read more of his madness on his new page – check it out.) – mh clay

Laura’s Sunday

featured in the poetry forum October 15, 2023  :: 0 comments

In her city there is a ruined cathedral
in the midst of ruins
its choir is missing
and there is an “Ave Maria” song.
On the road edges, stones relieve pain
only the choir traces are together with dry
flower bouquets
There are many dogs, and trash.

There is a large piano without its proper place.

In her city there is a ruined cathedral
longing for bells’ sounds to awaken her
she wears a beautiful dress, whispers Ave Maria
in solitude.

She has a sweet voice, every Sunday she goes
into the ruins, talks with stones, with flowers
that do not blossom, she goes easy through ruins
and wipes her happy eyes without trying the voice in a choir.

It is Sunday and her delighted eye is resting.
She sings Ave Maria in solitude.
With an eraser of love she erases the invoice
which time has left behind
while gathering her hands over her pretty breasts,
in silence she opens up a new page and writes a senseless verse.

It is Sunday
she is awakened while dreaming a love temple
and song sounds.

Ave Maria is alive!
and waits for nature to become prettier,
the same as a flower, prettier with all its beauty,
waits to join the choir of life.

She walks over the ruins of the cathedral and lights a candle.

Her pretty knees touch the solid stone.

(Translated from Albanian by Peter Tase)

editors note:

Devotion in devastation. – mh clay

A paper

featured in the poetry forum August 15, 2022  :: 0 comments

A paper may be more important
than the weight of your desires, of dreams
of all the pain you carry in your chest, on heavy shoulders;
more than blue eyes where ships of desire enter and go out,
more than a heart attacked by storms and tsunamis.

It can increase the pain or reduce it.
A paper can define: where you can go and where not,
a letter called a permit to cross the border,
where the laws of passage there depend on someone,
as they are dependent here on someone else.

Human life is full of boundaries, obstacles, temptations,
Sadly – a letter can reduce your body weight,
the severity of the pain of love, of desires, of dreams, of sadness,
a letter can reduce the amount of joy, the amount of happiness.

A letter can measure the amount of breathing,
oxygen in the body, tension, pulse.
Because we are always surrounded by borders
that appear and disappear quite suddenly in our lives.

We know that borders have control,
police and soldiers ready with weapons in hand to carry out orders,
but we never do the right thing to replace them
with clover flowers, beautiful sculptures, and spring dreams.

Because the real boundaries are in the language,
in morning dreams and bad desires of night.
Astonishingly, people do not like borders,
but they are not used to living without them,
therefore they seldom understand the weight of a letter
that determines how much you weigh,
who are you and can you go where ever you want?

Boundaries are a burden and people are doomed to suffer
within them, therefore they find it difficult to increase the size of the heart,
of language, of soul, of dreams
and create the magnificent kingdom of love.

(Translated from the Albanian by Edita Kuçi Ukaj)

editors note:

No paper required; the boundaries of that kingdom are self-imposed. – mh clay